So where does earth come from? That was yesterday’s big question.
Izzy and I were on our daily walk with the dogs on Hampstead Heath. It’s a great place for celebrity spotting – in the last few days we’ve waved at Ricky Gervais and Doctor Who, and Boots chased Kate Moss’s dog into a nettle bush, though Izzy didn’t recognize any of them.
Look, there’s Nanny McPhee! I enthused. But the real Emma Thompson looks nothing like her warty on-screen persona and, besides, Izzy was too busy examining the ground to notice her.
Apparently this George Northwood bloke is pretty hot stuff.
While Jo was texting me progress reports from the salon – “eek, I’m about to meet George”; “they have a dog called Freddy”; “he’s reeeeeealllly nice!” – I was reading an article about George Northwood in The Telegraph.
Oh dear, I have a terrible feeling about this.
I do hope she knows what she’s doing. There’ll be tears by sundown. Jo, my wife, is having a haircut.
Not just any old haircut, but a complete schism, an independence movement from her current look. Like the Scots, there’ll be no going back after this.
Joanna was confused.
“So why did Jeremy Clarkson use the ‘N’-word in ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Moe’?” she asked innocently.
Being American, my wife was brought up in a world where the only creatures ever caught by the toe were tigers.
Jo is a modern woman, born in 1970. At school in Los Angeles, they always used tigers in this playground rhyme. My own children used tigers too, and my eldest is 32. They would no more consider using the ‘N’-word in a sentence than they would use the “C”-word in front of their parents.
The ‘N’-word was part of an earlier generation. Mine, and Clarkson’s.
